Mirror Image
by bleeckerstreet12345
Summary: Someone told me once that you could never really look yourself in the eyes. That every mirror image you see is reversed, distorted. Sight is funny that way. The eye takes in light and processes it, first upside down, then right side up. ...


Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot  
  
This is for Kyle.   
  
  
  
Someone told me once that you could never really look yourself in the eyes. That every mirror image you see is reversed, distorted. Sight is funny that way. The eye takes in light and processes it, first upside down, then right side up. I started thinking, what if when I see a dog, someone else sees a cat? What if when I see red, someone else sees blue?  
  
So when they explained this to us in fourth grade science, my thoughts immediately went to my "gift". Was something just wrong with my optical nerve? Is that why I saw ghosts? Was it just some weird fluke? Some kind of weird brain malfunction that allowed me to use more than ten percent of my brain?   
  
When I met Jesse...when I lost Jesse, that idea went out the window. I needed this to be a 'gift.' I needed it to be more than just some freak accident, like my mom tripping while she was pregnant with me or something. I needed an answer.   
  
I need an answer. Ever heard those stupid, lovesick expressions about a piece of you being missing? Well they're not kidding. It hurts. It literally hurts. Hurts in the way that you know your never going to able to look back on and laugh at, even shake your head at. Hurts in the kind of way where you feel like you've just undergone bypass surgery. Hurts in the kind of way that leaves you staring at the wall for hours, your very own made-for-tv movie playing out on the white plaster.   
  
I've never liked Valentines Day. Really, even before Jesse, it just wasn't a holiday I enjoyed. At all. It was created in honor of St. Valentine, who died in a massacre on the streets. Why I am the only one who seems to find this ironic, I'll never know. It's a hallmark holiday, get your significant other a card, candy, some flowers maybe, your set until Christmas. And yes, I admit it, if Jesse had showed up on Valentines Day with a dozen roses I doubt I would be complaining.   
  
But he didn't.  
  
He didn't, and won't, and he can't. Can't because he's gone. And he's not coming back.   
  
"When does this stop hurting?" I'd asked Father Dom, the day after He left. He shook his head sadly.   
  
"It doesn't." he responded quietly. I ran. Running seems to be the only thing that I can do lately. Usually it clears my mind, I can focus of the pounding of my feet against the concrete.   
  
That night was different. You can think about a lot of things when you run six miles to a beach. But when you are trying desperately hard not to think about something, its best not to stick to one train of thought. So I ran, me and my schizophrenic thought patterns, down to the beach. The sand was warm, carrying the leftover heat from that days sun. I dropped to the ground, my breath was coming in gasps, I was shaking, I assumed I would start crying. But I didn't. Instead I sat there, on the warm sand, the hush of the surf spinning a net around my ankles, looking at the moon.   
  
I was in love with him. I knew that. It had taken me forever to admit that I was in love with him. I'd fought as hard as I could not to fall in love with him, but there it was. I was in love with him, he was dead, but more importantly, he was gone, and that was my fault. I had been the one to break away. The one to say "I can't do this." he had accepted it of course. He hadn't fought me on it. God I wish he'd fought me on it. The next day I'd gotten the news,  
  
Father Dom had performed the exorcism, on Jesse's request.   
  
On Jesse's request.   
  
He loved me too much. He loved me enough to let me go, to accept my wishes without a word.   
  
Yes I have a fear of commitment. Yes I'm scared of getting hurt. But...I didn't mean for it to be like this. I have a fear of commitment...but why couldn't he see? I can't live without him. I don't WANT to live without him.  
  
We weren't anything special. Nothing special. No famous bard wrote any plays about us, we weren't on MTV True Life. Nothing special.  
  
But he meant the world to me.   
  
I've been sitting on this beach for hours. Waiting for a sign. Some kind of sign, something to reassure me, tell me I didn't screw up monumentally. That this ache in my chest would go away soon. I needed the kind of thing that happens in movies. I need last goodbyes, his handkerchief, a whisper of his voice...anything.  
  
I didn't get anything.   
  
I got a warm breeze, warm sand, a nice moon and the best sleep I'd had since he left. Nothing monumental. No answers. No goodbyes.  
  
I never get answers.   
  
Happy Valentines Day Jesse. 


End file.
